


Salt

by ackermom



Category: Redwall Series - Brian Jacques
Genre: Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 11:45:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6802471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ackermom/pseuds/ackermom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brome tries to reconcile the events at Marshank.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salt

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted at filiuscanis.tumblr.com

Brome never quite gets to validate his suffering- because he suffered too: he was captured, he was beaten, thrown into a pit, starved, then separated from his only hope of rescue and caught up in a struggle beyond his years; and then he lost Felldoh, then he lost _Rose_ , and on top of everything, he lost Martin too, and he had to trudge home with salt stinging all his wounds- because no matter how much he suffered, he isn’t the one who died. They don’t speak of Rose, so how can they speak of Brome?

He doesn’t blame Martin. 

Not at first.

At first, he blames himself for ever leaving home and creating such a mess. He carries the guilt of wayward youth on his shoulders so his parents don’t have to bear such a burden. He accepts the guilt, every ounce of it; he quietly atones as he weeds the garden in the morning, as he bandages every scrape in the infirmary, as he singlehandedly holds Noonvale up. If he works hard enough, he reasons, if he is sorry enough, then he will be forgiven. 

But the seasons go by, and the guilt does not ease. He watches his father’s fur turn gray and he watches his mother prune the buds at Rose’s grave, and he thinks how happy they could have been if they had left Marshank alone.

So for once he sides with his father. He gets angry: at Martin, at his memory and legacy, at the mysterious eyes staring up at him from Boldred’s seashell portrait, at the would-have-been-brother-in-law who could have left their family alone and left his sister alive. He does not say it, but he does not have to. Keyla and Tullgrew see the change in his eyes, the way his jaw clenches at any mention of swords. Keyla says nothing of the resemblance he sees, but Tullgrew does. You remind me of someone, she says to his face, her eyes stern and unwavering, because she thinks he needs to hear it. Brome doesn’t know if she means Martin or Felldoh or both, but it shuts him up fast. 

He forgets about Marshank then. If he can’t be angry at Martin- because he really can’t be, can he- then he won’t be angry at all. He puts the seashell locket aside and he never shows it to his parents before they die. He falls in love and tries not to think about how his heart would break if his wife- or his _daughter_ \- was taken from him. He leads Noonvale through the good and the bad, through summers of peace and winters of rest, through seasons of silence. They speak not of Marshank, not anymore. Not until the anniversary of the battle approaches, and Brome realizes he is the only one of them left standing.

He wonders where Martin went. He wonders if Martin held true to his promise to never speak of Noonvale. He wonders if Martin was happy, off in some distant corner of the world. He wonders if Martin left behind a wife and children who will never hear of Marshank, who have not had to pick up the pieces left behind. He wonders if anyone will ever find him.

So he pulls the seashell locket from its hiding place and he gives it to his grandchildren. He says what he has to; the full story, he knows, is hidden somewhere in Noonvale, in Pallum’s dusty old volumes. The battle in all its details has been written down for the generations to come. Brome tells that which has not been recorded.

“I’d forgotten,” he sighs, cradling the locket in his withered fingers, “how much Rose looked like our mother.” 

The words pass over the heads of the children who are gathered at his feet, eager to finally revel in the glorious tale they’ve only heard rumors of, but Brome’s son and daughter exchange glances behind him. 

“Father,” his daughter starts to say, but he waves her off.

“Hush. I’m telling a story now.”

The fire crackles in the following silence, its yellow flames throwing quivering light across the length of the room. Brome feels the children’s gazes on him as he stares into the painted faces in the locket. He lingers like that for a moment more, before, finally, he snaps the locket shut and begins to speak. 

“Marshank,” he says, and the children’s eyes glow with anticipation, “sat on tall, gray cliffs overlooking the eastern sea. It was hot that summer. The sun beat down on you every turn you took. The only relief, if you could call it that, was the sea breeze, but the salt stung your eyes. There was no place to hide in Marshank,” he sighs, “especially not in the pit.”

He pauses, the fire reflecting in his eyes. Finally, he smiles lightly.

“That,” he says, “was where I first met Martin the Warrior.” 


End file.
